


Muscle Memory

by PepperPrints



Series: Powerless [2]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:58:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post RE5 AU. Defeated and imprisoned, Wesker barters for his freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muscle Memory

**Author's Note:**

> For the 30_kisses challenge. Prompt: news; letter. No warnings save for some alcohol. This is a companion piece to 'Common', and a third installment will come along eventually.

 “I've got good news, and bad news.”

 

Chris sighed, glancing at Piers with some reluctance when the man approached. He wasn't feeling very optimistic today, and neither was Piers, given his tone of voice. “Good news first,” he said.

 

“Well,” continued Piers, idly scrolling through the message on his phone. “Good news is that Wesker has decided to talk.”

 

Chris frowned. That sounded too easy to be trusted, and he guessed that was where the second part came in. “And the bad news?”

 

Piers glanced up at him and he handed Chris the phone so he could see the words himself. “The thing is, he says he'll only talk to you.”

 

Chris felt his shoulders stiffen and he snatched the phone a lot more harshly than he ought to have. Sure enough, the words were there, all in the report, along with a plea that Chris respond and make his way to the prison as quickly as possible. The signature at the bottom made it guaranteed that he could not say no.

 

Piers was giving him that look again, his expression pinched. “Are you going to go?”

 

This was going to be a bad day.

 

–

 

“Chris, how good to see you.”

 

Wesker looked entirely unlike himself as he rested his shackled hands on top of the table. His pale hair was messed and cheeks were hollow, the skin dark around his eyes that were blue once again. He seemed slimmer than he should have been, weary, and Chris could imagine why. He was weaker, there was no getting around that; they didn't even bother going to extremes for safety during the visit. There was just the table and the bonds around Wesker's wrists. No glass. No guards. It wasn't necessary.

 

Chris didn't bother to return the greeting. He pulled his chair back and sat down, crossing his arms as he sat across from Wesker. He could imagine why Wesker asked for him, of all people, and he didn't like it one bit. In any other circumstance, he would have said no, but if Wesker had information that could help them, it was a risk he had to take.

 

“I hear that Umbrella has been giving you a hard time,” Wesker said, his tone still a drawl, but he did sound less confident than usual.

 

“Where would you have heard that?” asked Chris lowly, narrowing his eyes, and that made Wesker smile, albeit with some strain.

 

“Please,” he sighed. “You cannot be that naïve.” He held out his bound hands, slender fingers outstretched. “Let me see your phone.”

 

Chris hesitated, his frown deepening, and he eventually relented, withdrawing his phone from his pocket. He scrolled through the features himself, pulling up the images of the new BOWs before he handed it over. “This is what we're up against,” he said.

 

“Hm,” intoned Wesker idly, his chains clattering as he raised the phone somewhat. “How inspired.”

 

The response made Chris tense, his jaw clenching, and he sat up in his seat. “Do you know how many people have--”

 

“Died? Many, I'm sure,” replied Wesker blandly. He set the phone down, a flick of his fingers letting it spin. “You should know well enough by now how little I am moved by such things. The culling of the herd actually pleases me.”

 

Chris snatched his phone back quickly, and Wesker almost seemed disappointed. “You forgetting how powerless you really are?” he asked lowly. “How easily you can die?” The bandages Chris saw from the last visit were gone, the wounds healed up, but Chris could guess that the memory still stung a whole lot.

 

“Quite the contrary,” said Wesker, threading slender fingers together. Every single word that followed was spoken with a certain deliberation, as if is took considerable force to ease each one out. “It is the crisis of my mortality which encourages me to extend you an invitation.”

 

“That so,” Chris muttered. He wasn't buying it. Wesker was kept alive because he had information, and while he no longer had the virus, he could still be a definite threat if they gave him opportunity. Chris refused to give him an inch. “And what's your price for selling us Umbrella?”

 

“My freedom.”

 

Chris almost laughed, but the sound didn't come out quite right. He sneered and he shoved his chair back from the table, rising to his feet. “Forget it,” he snapped bluntly. “Not in your life.”

 

As Chris began to walk away, he heard the sharp clatter of Wesker's cuffs when his hands moved. “New York, Toyko, Moscow, London...” he recited slowly. Chris turned his head, finding him counting down on his fingers. “Those cities will be wiped from the face of the earth, and that's only the beginning.”

 

Chris stilled, his entire body a line of tension, and he found Wesker's slitted eyes fixed on him. There was something chilling in that stare; like the gaze of a predator. “You don't need to decide today,” he continued casually, leaning back in his seat. “You have time to think it over.”

 

Chris left without another word, and he slammed the door behind him.

 

–

 

Piers didn't like him drinking, not one damn bit, but after today, Chris insisted. Piers relented to it, but under his deliberate supervision. He sat right next to him at the bar, hovering, making certain this only went to the extent which Piers deemed acceptable. He knew he couldn't dissuade his captain entirely, so he made this compromise, and it worked out pretty well.

 

“Are you serious?” Piers asked, and Chris made a low sound against the rim of his glass. “Did he actually think that would work?”

 

“It might,” admitted Chris between generous gulps. He honestly couldn't remember how much he had to drink at this point. “If he's telling the truth and Umbrella is planning something that huge, we can't let that happen. Our intel isn't good enough, we won't be able to find it on our own in time.”

 

Chris threw his head back, downing the last of his drink before he slammed it down against the bar. He turned his gaze to Piers expectantly, and Piers looked skeptical, but he gestured the bartender over all the same. “Another round.”

 

“Can't let him out,” muttered Chris, swallowing the next glass as quickly as the one before it. “He'll get himself infected again, and it'll start all over.”

 

Piers made another gesture and had his glass refilled again. “But if what he's talking about is real, we can't let that happen either,” he sighed, and his lips curved downward. “Son of a bitch.” Chris shared the sentiment, but all he gave was a muffled noise against his glass as he swallowed it down. “So what do you want to do?”

 

Chris stared into his glass, swirling the liquid idly, and he shook his head. “Don't know yet,” he replied, and his voice was slightly slurred already.

 

Piers frowned, and he stood up, placing his hand on Chris's shoulder. “C'mon, Captain,” he said, urging him up. “That's enough for right now, let's call it a night.”

 

Chris stumbled a little when he stood up, leaning on Piers as he was encouraged. “I need to start cutting you off sooner,” he sighed. “You weigh a ton, and it's not exactly fun being the one sober guy at the bar.”

 

Chris smiled faintly despite himself. “You could drink with me,” he offered.

 

“I only drink on happy occasions,” said Piers, dropping his hints very boldly. “So when this is all over, I'll take you up on that.”

 

There was a thought. “Right,” Chris said, but didn't believe it. He had thought things were 'over' several times before, and it never stayed dead. It was gradually getting harder and harder to accept that there was an end to this. Even if there was, Chris knew it would follow him in memories and nightmares.

 

Speaking of memories... Piers pushed him into the passenger side of his car, and Chris felt a wave of nostalgia. Piers climbed into the driver's side, pausing after he shut the door. “You okay, Captain?” he asked, and only then did Chris realize how he was staring.

 

He didn't want to name it, but there was something familiar that crept up into his gut. Drunk in a teammate's car, being carried in and driven back. Piers looked after him, and Chris found himself drawn to his eyes. They were brown, and carried a certain warmth that he hadn't realized until now – not like the icy stare that was fixed on him in the prison, cruel and reptilian. “...yeah, I'm okay.”

 

“You sure?” Piers pressed. His hand moved to Chris's jaw, tipping his head up so he could get a look at him, and then they were suddenly too close for Chris to think better of his actions.

 

“ _I like your eyes,” Chris had said, drunk enough to be stupid with his words. “They're unique.”_

 

_Even so, Wesker remained as unfaltering as ever, unable to take a joke or a compliment. “Your eyes are blue as well.” Chris should have laughed, but he leaned in instead, close enough that he was murmuring against Wesker's mouth._

 

“ _Not like yours.”_

 

It seemed so natural that he couldn't resist it, and the alcohol made everything so much easier. Chris leaned in and touched their mouths together, giving a soft sound as his eyes closed. Piers went stiff, shocked, and he seemed frozen until the moment Chris slid his tongue across his lips.

 

“Chris!” he snapped, shoving him back against his seat. “Jesus! What are you doing, Captain?”

 

Realization came crashing down all at once. Chris stiffened, and he suddenly felt very sober. What _was_ he doing?

 

“...sorry,” he muttered, voice low and his head bent. Piers turned back towards the road, starting the car, and Chris could not make himself look at him.

 

They drove in silence for agonizing minutes before Piers spoke again. “I'm not angry,” Piers began carefully. “I just don't want to do that when you're drunk.”

 

“Yeah,” rumbled Chris quietly, unable to find the will to say much more. “Sorry.” That was twice now where he only found his nerve after he had drowned himself in alcohol.

 

Piers didn't like it, but a long time ago, Wesker did.

 

“Let's get you home, Captain,” Piers said. “It's late.”


End file.
